When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Thirty-Five — Fire in the Walls

The apartment was too quiet when Emily unlocked the door. The click of the bolt sliding back seemed louder than usual, echoing down the narrow hallway. She paused on the threshold, key still in the lock, and let her senses sweep the air the way she had learned to do on deployment: listen first, move second. Nothing stirred. No hum of the neighbor’s TV, no muffled arguments through the walls. Just silence—dense, heavy, watchful. She exhaled and shut the door behind her, locking it again, then leaned back against the wood. Her body still carried the bitter taste of the session with Lang. His questions had been bullets disguised as therapy. His pen had scribbled faster than her answers. He hadn’t listened. Not once. And in the end, his neat little prescription—a pill to smooth the rough edges—had been the final insult. He hadn’t cared that she said she slept. He hadn’t cared that she said she was working, functioning. He wanted her filed under unstable. She shoved off the door and walked into the kitchen, placing her bag on the counter. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and stale coffee. She flicked on the light, the bulb buzzing overhead. For a moment she stood there with her hands braced against the counter, letting the frustration settle. Her reflection in the microwave caught her eye. Pale skin, damp hairline from the stress of the day, circles faint under her eyes. She didn’t look broken. She looked like a soldier who’d come off the line and hadn’t been given time to breathe. Emily pushed away, stripped off her sweater, left it draped over a chair. The shower was what she needed. Steam, heat, something to wash off the invisible fingerprints Lang had left all over her skin. The bathroom filled with fog quickly, hot water drumming against her shoulders, sliding down her spine. She braced her palms against the tile and closed her eyes, letting the sound drown the day. Images flickered regardless: Lang’s glasses glinting as he looked at his clipboard instead of her face, Reeves’s voice in the private room saying he knew Hudson, Harris, Lang. And that final line, still echoing in her skull like a drumbeat she couldn’t silence: I saw five soldiers pumped full of drugs to make them into super soldiers. Emily shivered under the water, even though it was hot enough to sting. She turned off the tap abruptly, stepping out and grabbing a towel. The mirror was fogged, her outline blurred like a ghost. She avoided wiping it clear. She didn’t want to see herself just yet. She dressed in soft clothes, pulled her damp hair into a knot, and padded barefoot into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, sheets still tucked tight. She pulled them back, sat on the edge, and exhaled. The clock on the nightstand ticked past 23:47. Her body ached for sleep, but her mind refused to power down. You’ve stepped into something bigger than you, she thought. Much bigger. The weight of it pressed on her chest. She was a widow, suspended from duty, painted fragile by men who wanted her silent. She had Reeves on her side, yes, but Reeves was one man against an entire machine. And she had dared to poke at its gears. Emily slid under the blanket, rolling onto her side. She tried to steady her breath, to pretend the room was safe. For the first time in weeks, she wanted to believe she could close her eyes and let go. Then came the sound. A faint scuff outside her door. Her eyes snapped open. She held her breath. There—again. A whisper of movement against the wood, too light to be neighbors, too deliberate to be chance. Emily sat up in one sharp motion. Her hand went to the small couch near the wall, fingers closing around the cold steel of her pistol. She had left it there out of habit, loaded, ready. Training surged back into her veins, washing away exhaustion. She moved toward the door, barefoot on the hardwood, every sense tuned to the hall. Her pulse thudded in her throat. She turned the knob slowly, weapon angled up, and pulled the door open. Four shadows rushed her at once. She managed to fire once, the shot muffled by a silencer snapping onto her wrist before she could fully aim. A blunt impact slammed into her temple—something hard, metallic. The world spun. Hands grabbed her arms, her legs. She kicked, twisted, snarled, but they were too many. Her head whipped sideways against the wall. Pain flared white. “Hold her—” one voice hissed. A sharp sting pierced her neck. The burn of liquid spreading under her skin. Emily gasped, tried to jerk away, but her muscles betrayed her. Her knees buckled. The pistol clattered to the floor. “Easy,” another voice muttered, clinical, cold. “She’s under.” They carried her like cargo into the kitchen, laying her on the floor by the stove. One man twisted the knob, letting gas hiss into the air. Another closed every window, tugging curtains shut. A third placed a folded piece of paper on the counter, carefully angled toward whoever would find her. The note’s handwriting was jagged, forced, the ink blotted as if written with trembling hands. I can’t live without Daniel and the baby. Forgive me. The men worked quickly, gloves preventing prints. One adjusted her head so it lolled realistically toward the burner. Another checked the pulse at her neck. “Dosage?” a soldier asked. “Enough to keep her down until the gas does the rest,” came the answer. They filed out silently, slipping into the night. Outside, a black SUV waited with its headlights off. Hudson sat in the back seat, window down just enough to let smoke from his cigar curl into the night air. His eyes gleamed as the four men approached. “Well?” he asked. “All clear,” one of them said. “Gas is running. Windows sealed. The note’s in place. She’ll be suffocated before morning. No struggle. No mess. Everyone will believe it.” Hudson’s gaze sharpened. “Good. No fire, no theatrics. Just silence. That’s how it should look.” Satisfied, Hudson leaned back. The glow of his cigar lit the edges of his grin. He pulled out his phone, dialing with steady fingers. “Voss,” he said when the line connected. “It’s done. She won’t be a problem anymore.” But as he spoke, the world split. A thunderclap of sound erupted from the apartment behind him. The building shuddered. Fire burst from the windows, a bloom of orange and black that roared into the night. The SUV rocked with the force of the blast. Across the street, car alarms screamed into life, lights flashing like a strobe. The soldiers hit the pavement instinctively, arms over their heads. Hudson’s cigar fell, crushed under his boot. He jerked the nearest man upright by his collar, fury etched deep into his face. “What the hell happened?” he roared. The soldier stammered, eyes wide. “Sir—the gas—if there was a spark, maybe—an appliance, wiring—” Hudson shoved him back. His jaw worked like stone grinding. This wasn’t what he’d ordered. This wasn’t the plan. But the building burned, fire licking skyward, windows shattering one by one. Inside, whatever had been Emily Clarke was gone, or so he told himself. Hudson dragged in a breath, then exhaled smoke though the cigar was gone. He turned back to the SUV, climbing in, slamming the door behind him. “She’s finished,” he said coldly, more to himself than the men outside. “And if Reeves thinks he can keep running, he’s next.” The SUV rolled away, taillights glowing red as sirens began to scream in the distance.